{"id":18383,"date":"2016-09-16T09:20:30","date_gmt":"2016-09-16T13:20:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=18383"},"modified":"2016-09-16T09:20:30","modified_gmt":"2016-09-16T13:20:30","slug":"down-to-specifics","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2016\/09\/down-to-specifics\/","title":{"rendered":"Down to Specifics"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'LA<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “LA River and Washington Boulevard Looking East, Santa Fe Railroad,” by Michael Light<\/a>. (Larger, higher-resolution version here<\/a>.) See the quotation from Rebecca Solnit, below.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

We pass the word around; we ponder how the case is put by different people, we read the poetry; we meditate over the literature; we play the music; we change our minds; we reach an understanding. Society evolves this way. Not by shouting each other down, but by the unique capacity of unique, individual human beings to comprehend each other.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Lewis Thomas [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Graham Greene [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Mother Talking in the Porch Swing<\/strong><\/p>\n

Inside the river is there a river?—
\nit could follow slow water the way
\nthe real current follows a stiller
\nshore. And in your life the life that
\nhurries could pass, and pass its
\nopen neighbor the earth, and its shore
\nthe sky. To be here, and always to find
\nplaces in the current, the dreams
\nthe river has—surely we bubbles
\nought to tell about it?<\/p>\n

Listen: One of the rooms the river has
\nafter its bridge and its bend in the mountains
\nis a place waiting for the sun every
\nafternoon, when the sun dwells
\nat a slant under a log and finds
\nthat little yellow room and a waterbug
\ntrying to learn circles but never making
\none its shadow approves. Miles later
\nthe river tries to recall that dream,
\nturning with all of its twisting self
\nthat found gravel and found it good.<\/p>\n

Just before the ocean that river
\nturns on its back and side and slowly
\ninvites the world and the air and the sky,
\ntrying to give away everything, everything.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(William Stafford [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

That is the example that snails offer us: saints who make masterpieces of their lives, works of art of their own perfection. They secrete form. Nothing outside themselves, their necessity, or their needs is their work. Nothing is out of proportion with their physical being. Nothing that is unnecessary or obligatory.<\/p>\n

And so they delineate the duties of humanity: great thoughts come from the heart. Live a better life and make better verses. Morality and rhetoric combine in the ambition and desire of the wise.<\/p>\n

How are they saints? Precisely by obedience to their nature. So: know yourself. And accept yourself for what you are. In agreement with your vices. In proportion with your measure.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Francis Ponge [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

A poem for record players<\/strong><\/p>\n

The scene changes<\/p>\n

Five hours later and
\nI come into a room
\nwhere a clock ticks.
\nI find a pillow to
\nmuffle the sounds I make.
\nI am engaged in taking away
\nfrom God his sound.
\nThe pigeons somewhere
\nabove me, the cough
\na man makes down the hall,
\nthe flap of wings
\nbelow me, the squeak
\nof sparrows in the alley.
\nThe scratches I itch
\non my scalp, the landing
\nof birds under the bay
\nwindow out my window.
\nAll dull details
\nI can only describe to you,
\nbut which are here and
\nI hear and shall never
\ngive up again, shall carry
\nwith me over the streets
\nof this seacoast city,
\nforever; oh clack your
\nmetal wings, god, you are
\nmine now in the morning.
\nI have you by the ears
\nin the exhaust pipes of
\na thousand cars gunning
\ntheir motors turning over
\nall over town.<\/p>\n

6.15.58<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(John Wieners [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I still think the revolution is to make the world safe for poetry, meandering, for the frail and vulnerable, the rare and obscure, the impractical and local and small, and I feel that we’ve lost if we don’t practice and celebrate them now…<\/p>\n

We need to look not at ugly places—the only ugly places are man made anyway, and even the airports and oil refineries and parking lots are pretty interesting in, for example, Michael Light’s brilliant aerial work. One of the things that I love about his aerials of southern Los Angeles is that you can see the docks, the refineries, the freeways, the suburban residential layouts with little cul-de-sacs and curving streets and the huge amount given over to cars in motion or parked—on that scale you really see systemically what the petroleum landscape is. It’s not exactly ugly—it’s too fascinating—but it doesn’t make you feel comfortable, it makes you feel alert and engaged.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Rebecca Solnit [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Night Singing<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Long after Ovid’s story of Philomela<\/a>
\nhas gone out of fashion and after the testimonials<\/span>
\nof Hafiz and Keats have been smothered in comment
\nand droned dead in schools and after Eliot has gone home<\/span>
\nfrom the Sacred Heart and Ransom has spat and consigned
\nto human youth what he reduced to fairy numbers<\/span>
\nafter the name has become slightly embarrassing
\nand dried skins have yielded their details and tapes have been<\/span>
\nslowed and analyzed and there is nothing at all
\nfor me to say one nightingale is singing<\/span>
\nnearby in the oaks where I can see nothing but darkness
\nand can only listen and ride out on the long note’s<\/span>
\ninvisible beam that wells up and bursts from its
\nunknown star on on on never returning<\/span>
\nnever the same never caught while through the small leaves
\nof May the starlight glitters from its own journeys<\/span>
\nonce in the ancestry of this song my mother visited here
\nlightning struck the locomotive in the mountains<\/span>
\nit had never happened before and there were so many
\nthings to tell that she had just seen and would never<\/span>
\nhave imagined now a field away I hear another
\nvoice beginning and on the slope there is a third<\/span>
\nnot echoing but varying after the lives
\nafter the goodbyes after the faces and the light<\/span>
\nafter the recognitions and the touching and tears
\nthose voices go on rising if I knew I would hear<\/span>
\nin the last dark that singing I know how I would listen<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(W. S. Merwin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “LA River and Washington Boulevard Looking East, Santa Fe Railroad,” by Michael Light. (Larger, higher-resolution version here.) See the quotation from Rebecca Solnit, below.] From whiskey river: We pass the word around; we ponder how the case is put by different people, we read the poetry; we meditate over the literature; we play the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Rebecca Solnit, William Stafford, W.S, Merwin, et al., on large things found in the small: 'Down to Specifics'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,36,251,4159],"tags":[351,1345,1655,2023,3884,4396,4397,4398,4399,4400],"class_list":{"0":"post-18383","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-reading","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-ws-merwin","14":"tag-william-stafford","15":"tag-ovid","16":"tag-lewis-thomas","17":"tag-rebecca-solnit","18":"tag-graham-greene","19":"tag-francis-ponge","20":"tag-john-weiners","21":"tag-details","22":"tag-philomela","23":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4Mv","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18383","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18383"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18383\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18390,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18383\/revisions\/18390"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18383"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18383"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18383"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}